The Only Thing That's Left To Do Is Live
by I'm A Cuckoo
Summary: He was seventeen. He shouldn't be crying like this. This sort of crying was reserved for children or for people much, much, much older than him who had lived through terrors and experienced pain and had nothing left to do but to let their grief howl.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is property of JK Rowling. The title is taken from _I Knew Prufrock Before He Was Famous_ by Frank Turner. No infringement intended.  
><em>

**The Only Thing That's Left To Do Is Live**

A flurry of movement from the Forest caught his eye. Hundreds of birds covered the horizon, chased out of their treetops by some unheard, unseen entity. They weaved and dived as one, caught up in a mesmerizing dance and for the first time, James wished he had any sort of respect for clichés. He could see it so clearly in his mind's eye – Summoning his broom and speeding off towards them. They would scatter on his arrival and once again, the peace that he so desperately longed for would be snatched from him. He watched as they melted into a dull sort of grey that added another shadow to the sunset and continued to watch until their shadow was nothing more than a thin line that underlined the clouds.

There was nothing to distract him now from his thoughts and so fiercely, pathetically, he wrenched his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead there, determined to concentrate on the individual threads that made up his trousers. Determined to concentrate on not actually thinking anything of significance. It wasn't working tonight. He was getting so fucking good at this, too. James Potter, third in his year, and an expert on acting as though everything was just stellar. Joking with his friends in the Great Hall every morning whilst making paper aeroplanes out of the Prophet (he couldn't bear to cancel his subscription, but he could hardly bring himself to read the newspaper after _that_, could he?), casually pulling another string of Os out of the bag in his classes, and still finding time to Captain his Quidditch team. How was it he could do all of _this _in spite of all of _that_ and yet here he was, unable to control his thoughts from wandering into a distinctly morbid direction.

Because those thoughts were creeping in. More and more often, he could feel them, edging their way to the forefront of his mind. And it was getting harder to bat them away. Even now, the threads of his trousers had somehow managed to remind him of those eyes that had glared at him in consternation during their last breakfast together.

He rubbed frantically at his hair.

'Fuck's sake.'

He scrunched his eyes together urgently and knocked his forehead against his knees, revelling in the slightly dazed feeling that swarmed his brain.

The shadows had closed in, carpeting the grounds and making him feel enclosed. He felt calmer now. Darkness hides a multitude of sins. And so, he let the first tear out. The dam burst. His shoulders heaved and his vision swam, and finally, _finally_, those eyes disappeared from his trousers but it wasn't enough. The pressure was building in his chest and he was too shitting terrified to let it out. He was seventeen. He shouldn't be crying like this. This sort of crying was reserved for children who were separated from their parents or for people much, much, much older than him who had lived through terrors and experienced pain and had nothing left to do but to let their grief howl its way through their bodies. He was seventeen.

The grass huffed in protest next to him. A gruff arm tugged his shoulders but James held firm. Sirius shuffled closer to him. They didn't say anything. What could they say? Sirius had never felt anything like this before. James was willing himself not to sob.

Somewhere a bird sang. Night had sneaked up on it and rather than surrender to the unfamiliar dark, it sang sweetly, defiantly. James closed his eyes. If he was thinking things like that, it was definitely time to stop indulging himself. He raised his head.

Sirius hadn't moved. His arm, now stiff and painful, still hugged James' shoulders, and seeing that James was back, he pulled James a bit closer to him in a comfortable squeeze.

'We've got to stop meeting like this, mate. People will talk.'

James snorted. 'How did you find me?'

His hands patted his trouser pocket and the Map rustled in response. Sirius didn't miss any of this. He laughed shortly.

'You're ridiculously predictable, Prongs,' was all he said.

They returned to silence again. Both of them tracked the progress of a bat over the pitch.

'Can I have my arm back?'

James smiled. It felt uncomfortable wearing one, and something remarkably like guilt churned in his stomach, but James Potter was an expert on acting as though everything was just stellar so he sighed heavily and said, 'I wouldn't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with, Padfoot, my dear. I was raised to be a gentleman.'

Sirius clapped his shoulder as he reclaimed his numb arm. 'And I thank my stars for that every day.'

It was funny really. All day, James threw himself into activity, never stopping for a second and always wishing he could be alone. Every evening, he retreated to the space underneath the Quidditch stands and longed for someone to find him. It had to be Sirius, James thought. He was glad it was Sirius. He may not look like he'd be any good at sitting silently still for hours, but if you need a good brood, you'd find no better company than Sirius. Remus had those concerned eyes and Peter had that awkward sigh and even Dumbledore couldn't stop twinkling in an understanding way that made him feel completely patronised.

'I'm cold,' Sirius told him.

'Me, too.'

'And my arm's completely dead.'

'Sorry.'

'It's nothing a shot of Firewhiskey won't fix.'

James stood up slowly, taking time to stretch his legs and crack his knuckles.

'You've got a wonderful way with words, Padfoot,' he said sincerely.

Sirius stood too and turned back to the castle. They made their way out of the stands and back across the grass. The warm light that escaped from the many windows eventually illuminated their path and Sirius risked a glance at James.

His eyes were red and hard. His lips were tightened into a grimace but his walk was purposeful.

Sirius elbowed him lightly in the side.

'You ready?'

James laughed, coughed, rubbed his eyes. 'Not in any way.' He ducked his head. 'Come on.'

It was gone eleven so the corridors were clear. Miraculously they made it to the Portrait without coming across any prefects or professors. It probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. James was passed caring right now, and he wasn't sure if Sirius had ever really bothered to begin caring.

Of course their luck wouldn't hold out. Of course not, James snorted bitterly as the Portrait swung open and they climbed through to their Common Room. Because of course the Common Room would be crowded. It was a Thursday after all, and the weekend was in sight. And of course, the only person who would pay any attention to the fact that two people were only just returning to the Common Room at eleven o'clock at night was Evans.

'Oh for...' James sighed as she made her way over to them, her eyes confirming the time on her wristwatch.

'Just go, Prongs,' Sirius urged.

'Too-'

'_Late!_' Evans hissed. 'You're so unbelievably late. These rules aren't just in place to annoy you, you know. They aren't just some kind of irritating barrier between you and your pressing social lives. Have you got any idea what's going on outside the castle walls at this moment? Do you think you're protected from that?'

James closed his eyes. Sirius clenched his jaw. Evans brought her hands up to her mouth, closing it just a second too late.

'Yes, Evans. Believe it or not, I am fully aware of what's going on outside the castle walls at this moment. And no, Evans. I don't think I'm protected from that.'

James moved past her tiredly.

'Potter,' she floundered. It was oddly disconcerting, watching her struggle. So he didn't. He moved to the stairs that led to the boys' dormitories and began to climb.

'Potter, I-'

'Evans, I say this with all kindness and sweetness,' Sirius said in a pleasant voice. 'Fuck off, alright? Just... yeah. Just fuck off.'

'I'm so sorry, James. I can't believe I just... Merlin. I'm sorry.'

James walked backwards, back to her. He spoke before she broke in with a fresh round of apologies. 'No problem, Evans. Really. Sorry we're late.'

'_You're_ sorry?' Sirius spluttered.

'Padfoot, don't we have an appointment with a shot glass?' He turned and walked back up the stairs, not bothering to see if Sirius followed. As he reached the first floor, he heard Evans groan and hiss, 'Christ, I'm such a _dick_.'

He laughed quietly and shook his head.

'I can't believe her sometimes.' Sirius was muttering somewhere behind him.

'Oh, come on, Padfoot. She didn't mean anything by it, did she? She never thinks before she speaks. She never bloody thinks.'

They reached their dorm and Sirius opened the door and ushered James inside.

Peter looked up from his position on the floor. Sirius looked infuriated, bemused, exhausted, sad. James just looked beyond it all. Looking from his friends to the glass in his hand, Peter shook his head. He held the glass up to Sirius and said with a heavy sigh. 'Christ, take it, Pad. You look like you need this more than I do.'

There was no hesitation in Sirius' movements as he grabbed the glass and tossed the contents back in a practiced manner.

Peter passed a glass and the bottle of Firewhiskey up to James who poured himself a healthy measure and knocked it back quickly with a relieved sigh.

Sirius slid down to sit next to Peter, his back leaning heavily on the bed behind him. Remus tugged the bottle out of James hand and poured four drinks. He distributed them and settled himself on his bed.

'To Charlus Potter,' he said in a clear, strong voice.

'Charlus,' they replied and all four glasses toasted the air.

James took a sip, lowered his glass and opened his mouth to speak. But then his eyes clouded over and his glass raised itself to his mouth and the whiskey was gone in a moment.

'Let's just get rat-arsed, alright?'

Remus passed him the bottle.

* * *

><p><em>Edited 15th September 2011<em>


	2. Chapter 2

Morning slipped into the dorms almost apologetically. Up in the Gryffindor dorms, the sun was peeking through the curtains, teasing itself through the gaps and tickling the faces it found inside. It was one particularly brutal poke of sunshine that awoke James. He lay there for a few moments, hoping against hope that sleep would come back. Nothing happened. With a huff of frustration, he rolled over to his bedside table and found his glasses. Then he lay back down, fixing his gaze on the coverings above him. He hadn't been looking forward to today. In all honesty, he'd actually been hoping that he would have drunk himself into a stupor last night and therefore slept in far too long this morning so that he could skip the lessons and just Floo straight to the funeral. Still, he reminded himself forcibly as he ruffled his hair absently, he never got what he wanted.

He lay there on his bed until the thoughts came back and he began to see the outline of his father's face in the hangings. Snapping his eyes shut quickly, he tried to remember what lessons he had today and whether he had any assignments due in. It was useless. With an angry groan, he pushed his bedsheets away from him and went for a shower.

The hot water tried its best to soothe his tense muscles. The pounding drops on top of his head succeeded in chasing away those treacherous thoughts anyway, and that was really all James could ask for. He got out, dried and shrugged himself into his school robes, trying to get out of the room before Pete woke up. As he passed it, he grabbed the Map and thrust it into his pocket. He had a feeling he wouldn't want to be found at some point today.

Despite the hour, the Common Room wasn't empty when he reached it. Sitting in the window seat with her nose practically pressed against the glass, Evans had the uncomfortable look of someone who had steeled herself to do something unpleasant.

James winced and bit his lip. He just couldn't deal with this right now. He couldn't handle these conversations with his own friends. How was he meant to sit through this conversation with the girl he more than fancied, knowing that she less than fancied (alright, probably more than disliked would be more accurate) him and was only having the pissing conversation because her entire House had heard her say something that was frankly hitting below the belt?

So it was with very little regret and only a slight twinge of embarrassment that James suddenly doubled over and scurried to the Portrait. He straightened up to push his way out of the Tower just as Evans removed her nose from the window.

'Potter?'

The Portrait slammed shut.

'I think someone was calling you, dear,' the Fat Lady said tenderly, giving James a sympathetic smile.

'Er, what? Nah,' James shook his head. 'Doubt it, there was no-one in there,' he said before setting off in the direction of the kitchen.

The creak of the Portrait gave him a head's up and he broke into a jog, reaching the secret passageway just as he heard a very familiar voice say in a very unfamiliar tone, 'Potter!'

He didn't stop running until the third passageway when he was safely on the other side of the castle and several floors down from the Tower. Should acting this childishly really cheer him up this much? He felt almost normal again. As he entered the kitchen, he could just about summon up a grin for the house elves that greeted him.

'Hello Finchy,' he said. 'Sorry to bother you at breakfast. Couldn't really face the crowds today. Could I eat here this morning do you think?'

This had seemed like a good idea when it jumped into his head during his shower but now, as he said it, James closed his eyes and shame pulled at him. Look at him. Hiding away from his friends, from the entire school. All because he didn't want to take delivery of the Prophet today. It was worse than pathetic, James thought harshly.

If Finchy could see any of this in James' eyes, he didn't act as though he did.

'Certainly, James Potter,' he squeaked in a cheerful sort of way. 'You can eat round the corner, if you want?'

A true smile snaked across James' face despite himself.

'Finchy, that sounds fantastic,' he said earnestly.

Really, he decided, if he were looking to be distracted (which he was), there was no better place to be than the kitchens. Watching the elves swarm around making vast quantities of porridge, adding an inexplicable bowl of mint humbugs to the top table and squashing pumpkin flesh into juice, it seemed as though this was the most peaceful James had felt in days. And if there was a lull in activity, the elves were more than happy to answer any and all of the asinine questions that popped into James' head.

Once the clock on the wall showed that it was half past eight and James was satisfied that his room would be empty, he thanked the house elves and left the kitchens. The path back to the Tower was a well-beaten one and so he didn't really pay any attention to his surroundings or to the students charging past him in a desperate attempt to reach the Great Hall before breakfast finished. He was so busy trying to remember the exact phrasing of why house elves preferred to use silver cutlery to gold cutlery that he was caught completely off-guard when a well-aimed spell halted him.

'Impedimenta!'

All James could do was fix the fiercest scowl he knew onto his face and hope that whoever had jinxed him did not spot his wand sticking uselessly out of his left sleeve.

Ah, yes. He'd forgotten about the issues he'd been having with luck recently.

Snape appeared in his eye line, his fingers twisting his wand this way and that in one hand, a newspaper grasped in the other.

'Do you make it a rule to attack people when their backs are turned, Snape, or do I just always catch you on a bad day?'

Snape just smirked.

'We missed you at breakfast, Potter. We'd left a bit of reading for you on your table.'

James' eyes flashed. Nott and Mulicber appeared either side of Snape.

'Of course, when you didn't appear with the half-breed and the squib, we became concerned. After all, you always work so hard to make sure that your little treats find their way to us. How could we do anything less than repay the favour? And I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say that some things are better given _in person_.'

The smugness on Snape's face combined with the cruelty of his jibes made James' entire body itch with fury. Snape seemed to know he'd hit the mark. His smile was indecent and his voice was poisonous.

'Would you like your present now, Potter?'

He lifted the jinx and pushed the newspaper into James' numb hands. Nott and Mulciber laughed lowly. Nott flicked his wand in James' direction, and distantly, he felt his nose break. In a vague sort of way, he knew that they'd left now. He couldn't really concentrate on that though when he couldn't tear his eyes away from the very thing he'd been trying to avoid.

Four pictures. Four pictures in grainy black and white print. Four different ways of punching James in the gut.

A close-up of his father's face, bruised, fragile. Not how any child is meant to see their parent. Blood crusted in the corner of his mouth and crept down his earlobe. His eyes, _those eyes_, staring blankly, as though the photographer had caught him unaware.

A full body shot now so that James could fully appreciate the fact that his father had died with a broken leg and a vicious, bloody wound to his stomach.

His mother, wild-eyed and windswept, clinging to the arms of some unseen person. Her mouth trapped open in a ghastly wail and her face smothered in tears.

And there. Right there, how could they? Right underneath his mother's picture. Defiant, proud, disgusting: the man who did it. One of Rosier's distant cousins looking haughty and disdainful and not at all disturbed by the fact that he had just killed an old man in full view of the old man's old wife.

In the end it wasn't the pictures that did it. It wasn't even the obscene headline. It was one little paragraph tucked away at the end. After a three page report on Charlus Potter's illustrious career as an Auror, and his respected position in society as a Pureblood who was not a crazed bigot, one paragraph summed up everything that he had meant to James.

'_Potter leaves behind his beloved wife, Dorea (née Black)_ _and his son, James, who is currently in his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A friend of the family, who did not wish to be named, told this reporter that 'Charlus was a loving father and husband who devoted himself entirely to his family. He will be so very greatly missed.'_

Something bubbled deep in James' stomach. He wasn't sure how he made it back to the Tower. He just knew that suddenly, he was slumped against the wall of the Common Room and the bubbling was in his throat. No, it wasn't in his throat anymore.

He vomited onto the carpet.

'Prongs!'

Someone was tugging him away from the wall and pushing him onto the sofa. Someone was wiping his mouth with a tissue and mopping up the blood from his broken nose. Someone cast a Healing spell on his nose and a Vanishing spell on the contents of his stomach. Someone sat down next to him and gripped his shoulder.

It had to be Sirius.

They sat silently. James didn't know what they were waiting for. Sirius did. The tears came. James didn't try to stop them this time.

'What happened, Prongs?' Sirius asked finally.

A shudder, a gasp, and the story came out. Sirius' grip on his shoulder was painful but James found that he didn't mind all that much. He wasn't being weak or pathetic if this was Sirius' reaction.

'I've had it with him,' Sirius said darkly once James was done. 'What kind of sick fuck is he?'

'Padfoot,' James said weakly. 'I don't –'

'I'm telling Dumbledore.'

James shifted on the sofa so he could see Sirius' face. That well-known glower was currently in residence but there was a determination about his jaw that James couldn't remember having seen before.

'Seriously?'

'He can't do stuff like that, Prongs. Yes, we left him 'treats' before. But that was salt in the shitting sugar bowl. This is...' Sirius looked about wildly. He couldn't define what this was. He swallowed loudly and looked at James.

James stared at him. Somehow, Sirius' reaction was making things worse now. He knew that Snape was now a sensitive subject for all four of them now after the events at the end of fifth year, but he had never fully appreciated the change it had wrought in all of them.

'I'm going. Now.' Sirius stood. 'Don't you dare even think about going to lessons, Prongs. You just stay there like you should have done this morning. Just... just wait for your mum, will you?'

And then, he was alone. Exhausted.

He slumped down into the sofa and closed his eyes, trying once again to remember every word that the house elves had said at breakfast. It wasn't as effective as it had been before. The sofa sank down slightly next to him and he opened his eyes in confusion. Evans looked back at him.

'Evans,' he sighed. 'Could I have worse luck?'

'I'm sorry.'

They sat there, side by side with those two words squeezing between them and it struck James that this was the most progress they'd made in six years together. He bit back another sigh and let his head drop against the sofa again. She couldn't take a bloody hint, could she? She always had to turn up whenever he wasn't fit for other eyes – the incident at the lake, the Astronomy Tower with Sarah Jones, the day of his father's funeral.

'I have a severe case of foot in mouth syndrome. We don't know what causes it, advanced stupidity probably, and I'm desperately looking for a cure, but until then, I just blurt out thoughts that I should never have thought in the first place, let alone voiced, and then it's just me at the end of it all trying to clear up all the mess.'

She fiddled with her jumper when she was anxious. James already knew this of course, having sat behind her for every single official test they'd ever had. He didn't understand why she was anxious now though.

'I'm so, _so_ sorry about your dad, Po- _James_. Really, I am. I can't begin to imagine how you feel, and having to find out in the _Prophet _of all things, and then to have it all played out for the entire country to see... Well, I just wouldn't be able to cope. And you've been doing so well, honestly. I've been... well, I've been proud of you. And then last night, you weren't here and what with today being what today is, I got so _worried_ and then you came back in and I didn't know how else to react but to shout.'

In the course of all of this babbling, James had sat up straight and was looking at her with an odd expression on his face. She had said all of this with her eyes firmly closed and only now was beginning to open them. She met his gaze.

'Say something,' she bit her lip.

'Where in the hell did all of that come from?' he demanded.

She looked down, her hands fidgeting even more.

'I just... I didn't like knowing that you were angry with me.'

This statement only created more questions in his mind, the most strident one being _why_? He didn't ask that though. He settled instead for 'I wasn't angry with you.'

'You weren't?'

'No.' He gave a wry smile. 'Having been shouted at for the past six years, I'm actually pretty good at recognising the Evans rage.' She blushed. 'None of the indicators were there last night. And,' he added as an afterthought, 'I'm also very well acquainted with your syndrome.'

They were quiet for a while, letting everything sink in. It wasn't the peaceful kind of quiet that James was used to with Sirius, it was a new, more unsettling type. He felt as though she expected him to start crying and swearing vengeance on Rosier's cousin. Or maybe she was waiting for him to punch a wall in furious grief. All that James could think about now was that he wasn't grieving properly. Evans was probably sat there now thinking about what a complete bastard he was, not even getting angry with her for throwing his father's death in his face so casually. She was probably picturing a black shard of ice in place of his heart. And the tiredness hit him in a way that it hadn't done previously.

Evans had been watching him nervously. She had meant it when she said she hadn't liked knowing he was angry with her. It had been different this time. Normally, she goaded him. She freely admitted that. She sort of liked arguing with him because he was so passionate about it and he made her passionate too. But last night, she had listened to the Common Room gossip about the fact that he was the next on the hit-list of blood traitors, and she had endured speculation as to whether the funeral would be ambushed and all the while, he hadn't appeared. And when he had, her gut reaction had been so alien that she had pounced on anything to squash it back down. Realising all of this now, with him sat right there, right next to her, with his eyes all bloodshot and distant and his nose swollen (had it been bleeding?) she was gripped with an urge to grab his hand.

'You know what, Evans?' he startled her with his too-loud voice in the too-quiet room. 'I need a break.'

'I'll bet.'

'No,' he said. 'I mean it. I need a break. I need a break from school, from Snape, from being sad.' He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. 'From you.'

She didn't really know what to say to that. 'Oh.'

'Yeah. And I'm going to break right now.'

'What,' she spluttered. 'Now?' Her need to have him near her was hurting her, and he was leaving.

He stood up. 'Now.'

He was halfway to the stairway to the boys' dorms when he turned back to her and said, 'It's nothing personal, Evans. And I'm _not_ angry with you. I just,' he flailed his hands about. 'I'm tired,' he said simply. 'And I –'

'Need a break.'

'Exactly.' He smiled. It was almost a proper one, she noted.

'What will you do?' she asked.

'I dunno,' he said in a bemused sort of way. He ruffled his hair. He remembered that she hated that and stopped. Then he remembered that he'd just declared he was taking a break from her and ruffled his hair with a renewed vigour.

She watched all of this with a small smile.

'I might live a little, you know?'

She nodded slowly. He retreated into the dorms. Her hand tingled slightly from where it rested, uselessly, emptily, on her lap.


End file.
